Modesto is his name. He has served in this house for fifty-nine years, and is therefore its priest. Reaching the top step he stops before the wide hall that stretches without surprises before his gaze: to the right are the closed rooms of the Masters, five; to the left seven windows, dimmed by shutters of lacquered wood. It’s just dawn. The old man stops because he has a tally to update. He records the mornings that he has inaugurated in this house, always in the same way. So he adds a number that vanishes into the thousands. The count is dizzying, but he isn’t disturbed by it: officiating forever at the same morning rite seems to him consistent with his job, respectful of his inclinations, and typical of his fate. After running the palms of his hands over the ironed fabric of his pants—along the sides, at the thigh—he moves his head forward slightly and sets his feet in motion again.
